Dial M for Money (and Mad Movie Makers)
Now, here’s the deal:
There’s been some terrible accident. Maybe a plane crashed, or the Yellowstone caldera finally erupted, or - God forbid – ABBA held a reunion concert in Wembley Stadium. Anyway, something dreadful happened and the world has been changed beyond recognition.
So, we need some Ry Cooder in the background: something classy – profound yet understated. No Towering Inferno or Jaws crap; something really cool.
Then we need some burning trees – no big fireworks; it must be a few last moments’ worth of smouldering. A young Marlon Brando, or James Dean – a young Johnny Cash in a pinch; that kind of brooding, bruising, lowlife heat.
We also want smoke that rises like morning fog, like an old Kate Bush video clip.
Some animals running away in a blind panic would be nice.
Then the hand-held camera catches a first victim. She – it must be a she – staggers, yea stumbles forward. She’s covered in dust; her hands, held out like begging bowls, are scratched and bloody. Her hair is a mess; her eyes are swollen. She is hurting, mama…
Then, one after the other, the rest of the victims appear, out of the still smouldering wood, wading clumsily through the smoke. None of them speak. All we hear is the sound of a thousand dying, crackling trees, settling themselves against a grey and forbidding sky – and, of course, some Angelo Badalamenti.
The victims walk towards the camera: the camera floats backwards. The woman we first saw walks in front. Behind her we see the others. They form a wobbly pyramid that’s forever pointing the wrong way and can’t seem to right itself again.
Now, a close-up of the woman. She looks bad, with her swollen eyes, pale skin, terrible hair and stumbling, Mad Cow Disease gait.
Now, she lifts her head, almost hopeful - she hears something: people are coming! Help is on the way…
She opens her eyes wider: the light hurts, like streams of burning barbed wire. She wants to cry for help but her lungs don’t seem to be working. Her throat is a desert worth of dry heat dust.
Then, through the pain and the heat and her aching flesh she notices her rescuers have stopped. They stare at her in horror. They start to scream, to cry, to pray. They shout abuse at her.
Someone throws a stone. Someone calls her a monster. Someone shoots at her.
Enough is enough. She gathers the other victims round her, like an army of hurt. They attack. They kill. They conquer.
Later, much later, she looks at the torn corpses of her enemies. She shakes her head – saddened, but also very hungry now.
Before she starts to eat, she shakes her head again. She spits out a dead tooth, and bits of skin and bones. She murmurs: They should not have called me a zombie.
THE END
(Anyone who wants to turn this brilliant story into an Oscar-winning masterpiece, can bring a few million quid and contact me through my agent.)
(Note to same agent: I really, really, really want Meryl Streep as leading lady!!!)
(’Nother Note: maybe not Streep – maybe Jolie…???!!!)
(P.S.: …Those eyes – those lips!!!!!! on a flesh-tearing zombie…???!!!)
(P.P.S: Oh, man, oh, man…! We’re gonna get rich!!!!!)
(Agent to self: Get a grip, grab a cold shower, get a life!)
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